


Cathexis

by Victorionious



Series: V's Round 7 H/C Bingo [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Gen, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insecurity, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorionious/pseuds/Victorionious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran gets hurt in the Deep Roads and has a lot of feelings. Wynne helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cathexis

**Author's Note:**

> h/c bingo fill!!! prompt was "secret identity discovered." I took some artistic liberties as to what identity is secret. my poor son.
> 
> this was p much literally just "i wanted zev and wynne to actually bond after he pushed her away a lot" that's all this is

No one really cared about him at camp. He had to keep reminding himself of that, though, which was the tricky thing. With the Crows, it wasn't ever really a question. Not until Rinna, and Taliesin, anyway. Before them, it had been a lesson learned fast. Still, he unlearned it even faster. Maybe they had broken something in him, deep inside, for him to be losing his walls so quickly yet again, after the harsh ending to the last time.

No one cared about him at camp, he'd tell himself, but the sweet Warden's repeated questions, digging only until he flinched, at which point they'd graciously back off, smiling gently, understandingly even! No one cared about him at camp, but then Wynne's eyes had only hardened when he'd made his first off-color comment, and even then she'd pushed until he pushed back too hard.

_ He _ didn't care about anyone at camp either, he'd remind himself, but he was self-aware enough to know that it was a lie the moment he had to start reminding himself of it. Truth was, he cared altogether too quickly, too much, too willing to let some details slip and others hide; whatever he could do to stave off the risk of further souring their opinion of him. And despite this, he worked at putting them at arm’s length, at keeping their relationships shallow. He didn't want to care about them, didn't want them to care about him, and in fact didn't even want there to be a  _ him _ to  _ care _ or  _ be cared about, _ while conversely grasping at life with everything he had in him. He had one of those now, and a shot at a real one. A hard one, sure, but when had his life ever been easy? And the prospect of maybe having people to share that life with? It was too much to bear, most days. With the world ending, it was even more baffling that what should have been more fragile than ever was within his grasp.

The thing was,  _ no one cared about him at camp _ . Or at least, they shouldn't. No more than would ensure his survival. They weren't likely to murder him in his sleep but they weren't likely to risk everything to save him should he lay dying, either. Or at least, they shouldn't. Beyond just the logic, the ethics of the situation, they really truly should not have, emotionally, even thought of it. He was a cohort, a comrade, sure, but nothing approaching a friend or loved one to any of them, not by any means. He'd tried so hard not to become that for any of them, to let any of them become that for him. They may be the only things that he had it in him to care about anymore, but they certainly couldn't have known that.

And yet, despite being gored well beyond his concept of repair, despite having been thrown across the Deep Roads tunnel, smashed into the wall and left there to pass out from blood loss, and a probable concussion, while the battle went on - he was alive, patched up with supplies that they really couldn't afford to spare, on the mend because of magic that Wynne really couldn't afford to waste, and resting, when they really couldn't afford to dawdle.

His last memory was of an axe being raised to deal a finishing blow, and once again he had been rather surprised not to wake up dead, and he really couldn't find it in him to comprehend how he hadn't. The Warden had many a trick up their sleeve, but teleportation simply wasn't one of them. Which simply meant that one of the mages in their group must have cast a barrier on him, which meant that they had to have used a lyrium potion when they'd only had but several, which meant that someone had been keeping an eye on him despite their own battle and deemed his life more important in the long run, which simply did not make sense.

Someone had to have carried him, but everyone had their own wounds. They were in a previously explored and cleared area of the tunnels, and someone had seen fit to lift him up and carry him the way back. It wasn't a short way back, either. The terrain was not entirely smooth. And yet.

It didn't make sense to him at all. It just... didn't. He turned his head, and caught the attention of Wynne, who had been inexplicably sitting near him, when she usually did her level best to stay as far away as possible. Perhaps it had been because he was injured? And she was in charge of healing? And maybe it was his weakness, his injury, or the fact that he had banged his head, but no matter the reason, the words still escaped him: "Why am I alive?"

Her eyes were soft, which didn't make sense either. He had done nothing to deserve her kindness. "You were hurt very badly, but the Warden and I managed to repair most of the damage. You'll be a little sore for a while, so take it as easy as is possible. I'd recommend staying hidden unless your help is needed in battle. We almost lost you, there."

That didn't answer his question, not the way it had been intended. She brushed a wisp of hair that had broken out of his braid from his forehead gently, raising even more questions in his mind. "Why?" he uttered again, blinking rapidly.

She frowned, removing her hand quickly. He bit back an apology, knowing it would do more harm than good. He couldn’t meet her eyes, after that, instead choosing to squeeze them shut and turn his head away.

He heard her sigh, and her clothes ruffled as she gently repositioned herself. A few quiet moments passed, and he almost thought she had given up when she quietly said, “I know your type.”

He could deal with this, he thought, turning to look at her sharply, roguish glint carefully placed and mouth rakishly upturned. “I thought you might, my dear, after all, we Antivans-“

“I saw a lot of them at the Circle, but I didn’t make the connection until now,” she continued, interrupting him without ordeal. He closed his mouth. “They were always the loudest, the happiest, the ones you were always the most surprised to find were blood mages, when it so happened to be the case. They were happy, but they did a great job of masking the fact that it was desperate.” She paused, gathered herself. “The Circle is necessary, though it does have its flaws. These people, these mages, they are the consequence of the Circle’s failings. They smile, they joke, they flirt, and it’s all smoke and mirrors, so you never see what they’re going through until they’ve already jumped off the top of the tower.”

Zevran’s mouth stayed closed.

“It’s always violent,” she noted, staring miles and years beyond him. “They rarely go quietly. Even the poisons they choose, should they choose poison – it’s almost as if they believe their suffering should last until the moment of their departure. Maybe to make that final rest truly the escape they intend it to be? Then, of course, there’s the ones who become revenants, who don’t get to rest even after they’ve stopped breathing. Those are always the worst cases. Rare, usually we catch them before it gets that far, but. Well.” She refocused on him at last, and she had never looked quite so old to him, despite all his comments on her maturity. “I know your type, Zevran, and I refuse to see you go the way they did.”

“I –“

“Just answer me this,” she said, interrupting him once more. “Answer me this one question, and answer it truthfully, and if you wish, I will leave you alone and speak no more of what I’ve said to you this day. Do you agree?”

He nodded, once, sharply, because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Did you ever really intend to return to Antiva breathing?”

Zevran didn’t answer, right away, and Wynne, seemingly resigned, sighed and made to stand up, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. His lip was trapped between his teeth, raw and bleeding once again from the fight. “It’s….” he said at last, “Not a simple answer, I’m afraid.”

Wynne resettled herself next to him, and took his hand.

“There are things that happened, things that I was responsible for, things that I do not dare speak of, at present,” he spoke, voice barely a whisper. “I am an assassin, but I don’t. Casualties are regrettable, but just barely tolerable. Wrongful murder, crimes of passion, well. That’s another story.”

Another moment passed, and Wynne said nothing. So, he continued. “You asked me once, if I feel regret about the life that I lived."

"You were rather flippant in your response, if I remember."

He laughed weakly. "Yes, well. Truth be told, I have some regrets. Not over what you would wish, I'm afraid, as I didn't have a great deal of choice in the matter, and I'd be a terrible liar if I claimed not to gain some enjoyment from it. Perhaps I'm just overcome with melancholy, perhaps my mood is affected from when I hit my head, but I do feel inclined to admit that there are certain incidents that I have found difficult to move past, to forget, to turn into meaningless anecdotes to tell around the fire."

He turned away, yet again. "I love Antiva. It is my home. I had something approaching a plan of action, for when I returned victorious. Truth of the matter is, however, I did not intend to return victorious. It was well known that this mission was perilous, and anyone who took it was very unlikely to come home alive. I was the only one who bid for the mark. It seemed a fitting punishment for my transgressions, I suppose."

"The trap was sloppy, very unprofessional, even from my limited knowledge of such things," Wynne noted. "I've seen you fight, Zevran, and you could have easily taken us down, if you had even put the slightest bit of planning into it. You just didn't want to."

"I was very surprised to wake up, let alone to live as long as I have since doing so," Zevran admitted. "I still am, sometimes. I know I'm hardly the favorite travelling companion, nor the one any of you would have asked for. I am often quite surprised to find that I haven't been murdered in my tent."

"Do you really think so little of us?" Wynne said quietly. He turned to look at her.

"No, not you. But I am sure you all think so little of me. It is well deserved."

"Less deserved than you think." She squeezed his hand lightly, and wiped at her eyes. Zevran looked at her, and was startled to see that she was crying. "I'm so sorry, that we've let you come this far while still holding that belief."

"Why are you-" he paused, blinking in confusion. "Why are you crying, Wynne?  _ Braska, _ what's-"

She squeezed his hand again, "What you just told me was a lot to digest, but I'm not upset with you, dear. I'm upset for you, but not with you."

"What I just... oh Bride of the Maker.” He ripped his hand away from hers like it was on fire. “I don’t suppose,” he said with a nervous, borderline hysterical laugh, “That we could just forget all this and move on with our relationship in a manner that doesn’t go down this path ever again.”

She frowned, and reached her hand back towards him. "Zevran-"

"No!" He snapped, flinching. He took a breath. "I don't know what- I- I'm terribly sorry to have troubled you with such nonsense, you should really return to wherever other than here you find that you're supposed to be."

"Fortunately for you, this is where I find that I am supposed to be. Not anywhere other than here. You are the most grievously injured of our travelling party, and you aren't out of the woods yet, especially considering how disoriented you are," she informed him calmly, folding her hands in her lap. "I won't discuss what we just spoke of further at this time, and I won't bring it up again unless you wish it. But you should speak to someone of this, be it myself, our Warden, or one of our other companions. You are suffering, my dear, and you do not have to do so in silence."

Zevran swallowed heavily, but said nothing. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, and though he had pain just about everywhere that one could have pain, he found that the worst of his discomfort was the cold nausea building in his stomach. He would have accused Morrigan of casting some sort of ice spell on him, just to increase his suffering, but he knew better. Soon it became unbearable.

"I shouldn't be like this," he blurted, scratching at his wrist. "I was trained not to speak under torture, magic, fear of death. You don't understand, I was trained! I should not still be talking about things that matter, but I cannot seem to bring myself to stop!"

Wynne started at his outburst, and moved to kneel next to him. "Zevran, you need to be calm."

"Calm? There has to be some, spell, curse, demonic machination because any idea of such a thing utterly seems to have escaped me! Do these words even make sense? I can't tell anymore," he gasped around shallow breaths, that only seemed to come faster and faster. "I was trained against this, I was trained to withstand any sort of interrogation, not to be broken by a gentle woman smiling at me kindly. I was trained to be more wary around kindness than anger, don't you understand? This isn't me, this isn't-"

"Zevran!" Her voice was loud and firm, but not harsh or scolding. He shut his mouth abruptly. "You have a concussion, and we couldn't fully heal it without risking worse damage, brains are very difficult to heal correctly. Your skull was fractured. I'd say only the Maker knows how much damage was done to your brain, but that would be a lie, because I know. It was very bad, and very dangerous, and your brain is still very bruised. Of course this would be affecting you. I have seen worse symptoms in much less severe injuries. But I need you to stay calm."

Zevran covered his eyes with his hands, and tried to ignore the wetness he felt. He was a mess, well and truly, and was utterly baffled by how a physical injury could cause this much damage. He knew it, practically, had seen it in others, but to be experiencing it firsthand? 

He sat up, gingerly, and tucked his arms under his knees, bringing them to his chest, and burying his face between them. "I'm sorry," he whispered, muffled by the fabric of his pants.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear," Wynne said softly. "Is it alright if I touch you, or would it be too much right now?"

He nodded his assent once, head still buried in his knees. When he felt a gentle, calloused hand guiding his head up, he saw Wynne kneeling in front of him. Slowly, making her intentions clear, she leaned forward, wrapping her other hand around his shoulder, using the hand holding his head to encourage him to lean it into her shoulder. His eyes were wide, tears dripping out of them steadily even as his breathing slowed. And just like that, she was holding him gently against her, even as he shook and fell apart.

“You keep asking me why,” she whispered into his hair, stroking it softly. “Is it so hard to believe that you are loved, Zevran?”

He let out a small wail, and held her tight.


End file.
